The Three Musketeers of the Apocalypse
by Indigo Carter
Summary: Chuck starts writing about a journalist, whose story is beginning to intertwine with the Winchesters. The three - whom he nicknames the three musketeers of the apocalypse - investigate some paranormal activity in Winchester and the surrounding areas, but what will they encounter? Claiming the brothers for England! Also, this is a sisfic, just to warn you. Updates as and when...
1. A Family Affair

_A/N: Standard disclaimer. Anything relating to Supernatural is not mine, I am simply borrowing it for a while. Except my OCs. They're mine. Enjoy :)_

* * *

Claire sat on her bed, mind empty, a smoke-grey kitten curled on her lap. The familiar numbness of a depressive relapse spread through her limbs until they felt like lead. Even the pricking of tiny claws was almost imperceptible through the fog of depression. She was restless, but nothing would be able to ease the agitation – she'd learnt that the hard way through many years of living with depressive illnesses. The laptop lying unattended-to beside her made a pinging noise and she turned her head slowly to look at the message on the screen. What she saw made her blink hard and sit up straight, dislodging the kitten slightly. It was a message from an author she'd interviewed for a magazine a few months previously, someone she hadn't thought very much more about since he'd been elusive and not very forthcoming in the interview, which had resulted in her being fired.

"Chuck Shurley. What do you want?" Her tired voice seemed suddenly much more English as Chuck grimaced.

"I need to talk to you." He ran a hand through his muss of hair and frowned hard at her through the webcam. "You look awful." A smile flickered across her face.

"I could say much the same for you." She attempted to calm the tangle of curly brown hair which was pretending to be a cloud around her head. "What do you need to say, Chuck? You already lost me my job, what else can you do for me?" The sarcastic tone of her voice carried well over the poor internet connection, and Chuck winced.

"I didn't mean to lose you your job."

"I know, Chuck, but all that crap about _Supernatural_ being real? That the characters in your books really exist?" The sarcasm increased, and Chuck winced. He took a deep breath.

"That's what I need to talk to you about…" he trailed off and looked around his surroundings for inspiration. Claire raised an eyebrow and waited. The kitten stretched and climbed up her top, coming to rest with its head on her shoulder. "Claire, those boys are real. The stuff I write is real, all of it. Every single fucking thing that's happened to the boys in the books happened to them, for real." Claire sighed heavily, sending the kitten sliding back down into her lap.

"Chuck, it's very nice that you believe-" Her tone was resigned rather than authoritative.

"It's not just believing, Claire! Tell me something I told you I had never told anyone about them." Claire's brow wrinkled as she thought back through the fog of the past few months to the details of the books.

"Their surname. You…you said you never mentioned their surname to anyone, never even wrote it down." Chuck nodded and gestured to someone – or someones – Claire couldn't see.

"Ok, boys, come and tell Claire what you told me." Two men, both tall and broad and completely overwhelming Chuck's presence in the room, came into view. They squatted next to Chuck and stared at Claire. One of the men – with floppy hair and dark eyes which seemed to hold similar pain to Claire's – opened his mouth and closed it again. The other – with short hair and green eyes which appeared shielded, as if he constantly maintained a façade to keep other people unsuspecting of what he was really like – did the same. Chuck growled. "For God's sake, stop staring at her and tell her what you told me! Dean?" The man to whom Chuck had appealed – the short-haired one – blinked and swallowed.

"I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Sam. Chuck's been writing our story since '05. Exactly as it happened, day in, day out. Everything exactly as it happened." Claire gave Chuck a disparaging look.

"So you just got two random men in off the street to make me believe that the story you wrote is, in fact, completely true. Despite the reams of evidence my editor found to the contrary before firing me. Chuck, this is low, even for you." She moved, the action clearly to cut the video call.

"No, no! Claire don't…don't close this call. Please. This isn't a joke and it isn't a trick. I promise you this is on the level. These boys really are Sam and Dean Winchester. And I need your help." Chuck's voice rose with desperation.

"Chuck, I'm an extremely depressed, highly anxious, very jobless journalist. I have no money and no will to go on, and most of this was caused _by you_. So do please tell me how exactly I can help you." Claire's accent was becoming more and more pronounced as she got riled. Middle-class English vowels slapped Chuck's ears as she drew herself up to her full seated height, shoulders back, jaw tight, eyes flashing. "And for God's sake will you tell those men to stop staring at me like I'm a zoo exhibit!"

"I've been writing their story, Claire. I've been writing the story of two living, breathing men. And an angel told me I'm a prophet of the Lord." Claire stifled a snort of laughter and took a moment to straighten her face.

"You're delusional, Chuck. Insane. Why on earth would I believe that you're a prophet?"

"Claire, I've started writing about you." She stopped laughing.

"You've been writing about me. What is this, some kind of sick fanfiction? Why in God's name would you write about me?" The man who had not spoken – Claire was going to assume he was Sam – stood up and wandered off, returning a few seconds later with three beers.

"I know it's been tough for you, Claire. Really I do. I've written everything you've experienced – everything, but mostly the things over the past few months – it's been all tangled up with the boys, but it's definitely you. You're the only person I can think of who it could be about." Claire gave him a resigned look and flopped against the wall behind her.

"Did you know these two before you started writing about them?" The lifeless quality which had left her voice returned.

"No, but-"

"Then why would you think you're writing about me?"

"Because I've written things only you would know about you. Things you hinted at while you were trying to get me to open up and talk to you during that interview. And I have no control over what I write…it's prophecy. It's not something I cause. It just happens. And someone wants me to write about you."

"What things, exactly, made you think it was me?"

"You never knew your real dad – your mom got pregnant when he was over from the States on a job, he left, but when she told him she was having you, he came back; just once, but he came back, and he gave you just one thing to remember him by…"

"His name…he insisted on me having his name on the birth certificate. Not that my mum ever showed me my birth certificate, or told me about my name or my father."

"Your mom died when you were six, and you were put into care under her name, not his. You never used his name until you left care when you were sixteen and went into a half-way house. That's when you found your original birth certificate with his name on it and your true surname. You began suffering with depression and anxiety when you were sixteen, and were diagnosed when you took an overdose. You were hospitalised and given psychiatric treatment, but nothing the hospital did could help you. Eventually, you were released from the ward, and you went back to school to take your GCSEs a year late. You passed them all with flying colours despite the fact that you were extremely depressed at the time. You went to sixth-form and took four A-levels – English, biology, psychology and history. You passed them all, exceeding in English and psychology. You went to Winchester University and studied journalism, and then you started writing for a newly-created fandom-based magazine for publication in the UK. And then I came into your life and screwed it all up." Claire had a look of shock on her face. The men with Chuck were watching her with pity and sadness.

"Ok…" Claire cleared her throat. "So you wrote my entire backstory in _Supernatural_. What do you want me for?"

There's…there's no easy way to say this." Chuck paused and took a deep breath. "Claire, your father was-"

"John Winchester. Widower. Native of Lawrence, Kansas."

"Take that, take what you know…you read the books before you interviewed me. Think about what I wrote…their father was John, they were from Lawrence, Kansas…" Claire's eyes fluttered closed and the three men watched her take a few deep breaths. She opened her eyes again.

"If you're trying to trick me into thinking those are my brothers, you have another think coming, Chuck. I'm not as stupid as I look!" Her raised voice caused the kitten to stir from its nest in her lap, and it let out a plaintive mew. "Don't meow at me, Bilbo, I'm trying to get my head straight." She scooped the kitten up and put it back on her shoulder, its green eyes staring curiously at the screen.

"I'm not lying to you, Claire. Your dad was John Winchester, of Lawrence, Kansas. Their dad was John Winchester, of Lawrence, Kansas. Your dad was a widower when you were born – in '92, right?" Claire nodded. "Yeah, and their dad was widowed in 1983."

"None of which proves I'm related to them."

"For God's sake, Claire!" Chuck was beginning to lose his cool. "I'm a prophet. I got told by God – admittedly via angels – that you're their sister."

"And you think I'm going to believe the ramblings of a delusional, failed writer?" Claire raised an eyebrow at Chuck, pointedly ignoring the fact that Sam was desperately trying to get their attention. "You're more of a moron than I thought."

"I'm not a moron. I'm a bad writer, and my books barely sold, and I sound like I've lost it – Hell, I feel like I've lost it most of the time – but I am not lying to you, Claire. Think about all the connections. Think about the blanks, the gaps that would be filled in." Chuck fell silent and she sat perfectly still for several minutes with her eyes tight shut.

"Claire." Sam's voice was significantly choked, and her eyes flickered open. "I would never have believed him, either. But I've seen him write. He knows everything. He's almost omniscient. He's written stuff about us…I don't want to go into it, to be honest. But he's definitely not lying to you. I swear." He gave her a pleading look.

"Tell me something true." Her voice was quiet.

"Something true?" Sam looked confused.

"Something not in the books. Something I haven't already read about you."

"Uhh. Ok, so one summer I read the entire English dictionary. Dean and dad were away hunting and I was home alone all summer. And I got bored, so I read the entire dictionary cover to cover, adding bits and crossing bits out…" Claire tilted her head to one side – the kitten pawed at her earlobe – and a look of sorrow crossed her face.

"You were alone in a motel room for a whole summer?" Dean looked uncomfortable and shifted where he was standing.

"Yeah. I was too young to go too. I would have been in the way." Sam cut himself off, as a bitterness seeped into his tone. Dean opened his mouth. "It's fine, Dean." Sam bumped shoulders with his brother and looked questioningly at Claire.

"One summer I read a thesaurus. It was the second summer I was in the care home. I'd hide in the attic all day, just me, a torch and this thesaurus, and each evening I'd go back down and pretend I'd been in my room all day playing with my one-legged dolly." Claire shook her head and gave a grim smile. "Dean?" He started at the sound of his name.

"I…"

"You hide what you feel. Good or bad, it gets locked away where no-one can use it against you." His eyes widened.

"Yeah…" Claire half-smiled.

"Chuck?" He had wandered off and was editing a few pages of manuscript, which he carried with him as he came back to the computer. "These men really are my brothers, aren't they?"

"Yes."

* * *

A few minutes of stunned silence passed, in which Claire found herself feeling extremely woozy, and the boys watched nervously, hoping she wouldn't pass out. She lifted the kitten from her shoulder, took a long drink of water and rubbed her eyes. She swallowed, pinched herself hard enough to bruise and opened her eyes.

"Ok, so this isn't another one of my bizarre dreams. I have family. Real family, not just the foster ones who let you down over little things like not knowing that being shouted at doesn't mean you're about to be forced to sit in a cupboard for hours, or that someone raising their hand in your direction doesn't mean they're about to hit you." Her tone had become musing. The look of pity and sadness on the boy's faces intensified, and Sam took a wobbly breath, which seemed to pull her out of her reverie. She shook her head. "Ok…so where do we go from here?" She looked like she was fighting an impulse to look hopeful. Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Chuck simply smiled.

"Claire, you and your brothers are destined to be together, the three musketeers of the apocalypse, if you will. I've booked them on a plane to England. They're leaving tomorrow from Chicago airport, arriving at Heathrow at about midnight." Dean and Sam glared at Chuck.

"That's a nine hour drive, jerk."

"It was the first flight I could find!"

"I'm sure I could have waited." Claire's eyes sparkled as she laughed at the boys. They looked at her. The smile changed her whole face. Her sea-green eyes lit up, the beginnings of crows' feet making their presence known. She reached behind her head and pulled her cloud of messy hair into a rough bun, and picked up a pair of glasses from the table beside her and put them on. "So, do you want me to pick you up?" The glasses magnified the sparkling of her eyes, and the boys couldn't help but smile at the mirth lighting her face. Dean squinted at her.

"Now that depends on the car." His tone was playful but the look on his face was verging on deadly serious. Claire giggled.

"You'll just have to wait and see, brother." She struggled to maintain a straight face. "Does my music choice have an effect too?" She gave in to the full-blown grin struggling across her face. The delight – in contrast to the misery the boys had seen previously – made the brothers smile.

"You know what, I think it might."

"Just as well I listen to everything then. 'Course, in my car it's my rules. Driver picks the music, passengers shut their cake holes." Sam and Dean grinned back at her. Chuck – who had been watching silently from the side-lines and smiling – suddenly chipped in.

"As much as I hate to break you three up, I really think Claire should sleep. What time is it over there?"

"Nearly 3am."

"Yeah, it's-"

"8pm for you in Missouri. It is definitely time for me to sleep." She yawned widely, almost catlike, and stretched.

"Ok, little cat." Chuck snickered. "You go to sleep. Just be at Heathrow for midnight. I'll call you to tell you which terminal." Claire nodded sleepily.

"Night, Chuck. I'll see you boys tomorrow." She smiled at them and stuck out her tongue. "It'll be an adventure." She closed the conversation and shut down her laptop. Her stomach was roiling with excitement and hope. She changed for bed, switched off the light, and curled up around a large stuffed dog. The kitten curled up beside her head on the pillow. As much as she tried to push down the happiness she felt, the excitement of meeting family, she couldn't keep the smile from her face or calm her mind enough to sleep.

Scenarios ran through her head, ways the first face-to-face meeting could go. She spent the remainder of the night twisting and turning restlessly, endlessly re-imagining how she would greet them, what they would say. Would they hug? Too soon? Would they need a lot of 'getting to know each other' time? The excitement was overwhelming, but not as overwhelming as the need to sleep, and eventually she drifted into a restless doze.


	2. Dean on a Plane

_A/N: Standard disclaimer. Anything relating to Supernatural is not mine, I am simply borrowing it for a while. Except my OCs. They're mine. Enjoy :)_

* * *

Sam stood a couple of paces behind Dean as they waited to go through the scanner at the airport.

"I can't believe I let Chuck talk me into getting onto a plane and leaving Baby and all our weapons with him." Dean's grumpy I've-just-driven-for-nine-hours growl carried back to Sam. Smiling, Sam clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"So which bit are you most annoyed about? Getting on a plane, leaving Baby, or leaving your guns?"

"All of it. The plane will crash and we'll die in the middle of the Atlantic. Chuck will crash Baby, and I'll have to rebuild her. Again. And he'll lose everything, we'll be worse than useless when we come back."

"Dude, if you're dead you can't rebuild her." Sam took a hasty step backwards, nearly standing on a large, very angry-looking woman with a small, very angry-looking dog, as Dean took a half-hearted swing at him. "But I get your angst about the guns. It'll be fine, I'm sure he'll just park her in the garage and forget about it all 'til we come back for her." Dean groaned.

"I don't know if that's worse."

"You left her for nearly a year when I was in Hell, and she still ran just fine. We're only going for a few weeks. She'll be fine."

"Sure." Sam shook his head at Dean, and then prodded him as the guard waved him forward to step through the metal detector.

Once they had got through security and safely into the departure lounge, Dean made a bee-line for the bar.

"Dude, are you sure it's a good idea to drink before you get on a plane?"

"Anything to block out the idea of seven hours in the air in a thin metal tube." Dean grimly downed a finger of whisky and grimaced. "Another, please." The barmaid – thin and blonde gave a flirty smile and leant over in front of him.

"A nervous flier, sir?" Her breasts wobbled temptingly in front of him, but he shook his head and swallowed the liquid.

"Ok, Sammy. Let me pay here and you can go look at the duty free." He slapped a couple of notes on the bar and stood up.

"Seriously, man? I don't need a nanny." Sam side-eyed Dean. "Are you ok?"

"You know what? I don't think I am." The brothers walked towards their gate. "I'm…I'm scared, Sam. What if something happens to Claire?"

"You mean like Adam?"

"Yeah. Like Adam." Dean's jaw clenched.

"Dean, she's fine. She's at home right now, probably sleeping off her late night last night. She'll be at the airport, and she'll take us back to her flat, and we'll all be fine. We won't crash and die, there won't be any demons on the plane, and if there's a case here while we're there, Bobby will deal with it. If there's a case there while we're there…we'll deal with it. It's ok, dude." Sam squeezed his brother's shoulder. "It's ok."

* * *

Sam pushed Dean up the ramp into the back of the plane, and showed the air hostess their tickets.

"Seats 24 H and J, move towards the front of the plane, second block of seats, they'll be on your right. Have a good flight!" Sam grimaced at her and gestured to Dean.

"I'll try, but he's a nervous flier." The hostess smiled kindly.

"I understand, sir. If either of you need any assistance, my team and I are more than happy to help you."

"Thanks, we should be fine though." Sam towed Dean through the doorway onto the plane, and down the aisle to their seats. Shoving him in first, he sat him down in the window seat and plonked himself in the aisle seat. Dean turned a worrying shade of grey-green, and Sam grabbed the nearest sick-bag, tucking it under Dean's chin. "For God's sake, man. The engines haven't even started yet."

"Dude, this is the _second_ time I've flown to the UK. I am not happy."

"Think about our _sister_, man. I don't know about you, but I think she's something we've been missing. She's different to Adam, I can feel it. And we can't know her unless we go to her." He gripped his brother's hand. "Dude, she's the missing piece. You heard what Chuck called us – the three musketeers of the apocalypse." Dean grimaced and retched dryly.

"Why couldn't dad have had another kid in the States? We could have driven." He gave the sick-bag a dirty look. "I know how you feel about her though, man. There is something about her, and I can't put my finger on what it is." At that moment, the PA system blared to life in a shout of static, and the Captain cleared his throat.

"This is Captain McLaine speaking, I'll be your pilot today. We have a flight time of approximately seven hours and fifty-five minutes, and we'll be cruising at a height of thirty-thousand feet at a speed of two hundred and four knots. If you could now make sure you can see and hear a flight attendant, they will talk you through the safety procedures on board this plane. I hope you have a pleasant journey. Thank you for flying with British Airways." As the flight attendants did their stuff with the life jackets, Sam closed his eyes and ignored them, until Dean frantically poked his ribs.

"Dude, you have to listen to this stuff!" He was waving the laminated sheet with safety instructions on it in Sam's face. "It's different on every plane!" Sam opened one eye and raised an eyebrow.

"Calm down, Dean. It'll be ok. We won't crash, and even if we do, they'll make sure we get out ok."

"But Claire…"

"Oh for God's sake, Dean! She'll be worried, maybe even anxious, but we'll get to her eventually and we'll all be ok. Relax. Take some deep breaths."

"When has that _ever_ helped me when I'm nervous or scared?"

"Good point. But either way, focusing on breathing slows down your heartbeat which makes your brain think you're calm, and then you actually are calm. Just…try it for a few minutes will you." Dean nodded and tried to take a deep breath. Unfortunately, at that moment, the engines roared into life beneath them.

"Sammy, this is not ok." Dean's grey-green tinge deepened. "Sammy this is very much not ok."

"Dude, you need to calm down. We aren't taxiing yet. We're sitting on stand. There is no turbulence. It's all perfectly still." Sam twisted in his seat to face Dean. His brother's eyes were glassy, the pupils wide, and his complexion was a worrying shade of green.

"Sammy this is not ok." Dean's knuckles whitened as he gripped the arm of the seat. "Dude, I really, really don't like this."

"I know. But I looked at the forecast over the Atlantic, and they don't think there'll be any turbulence this time."

"You said that last time!"

"I know, but…you've got to hope that I'm right, dude. You've got to get through this."

* * *

Three hours into the flight, Sam looked at Dean. He'd finally dropped off having gone through six sick-bags, and frankly Sam was beginning to feel ill himself from the occasional whiffs of vomit emanating from Dean's mouth as he snored. Pinching his nose and smiling slightly, he settled back in his seat and tried to focus on the TV screen ahead of him. They were on the second film of the flight, and Sam felt they'd made a bad choice – showing _Snakes on a Plane_ on a plane midway over the Atlantic probably wasn't the best PR decision the airline could have made.

He closed his eyes and thought about what would happen when they landed in London. Neither he nor Dean had been to London before – the only time they'd been to the UK was to burn Crowley's bones in Scotland – and he suspected that Claire would go out of her way to make sure they experienced everything she could offer them.

Without realising it, Sam dozed off, and the final four hours of their flight passed without a hitch.

* * *

Claire sat in the darkness of her kitchen, the only light lent to the room by a single candle on the table. She sat and gazed at the flame, the notes of _Veni Creator Spiritus_ floating from the speakers tucked behind the sofa. As she gazed, Bilbo the kitten climbed her leg like a tree and flopped supine onto her lap. Absent-mindedly she smoothed the fur on his stomach and he began to purr. Thoughts chased their way around her mind as she waiting for enough time to pass for her to leave for London. She was still extremely anxious about meeting the men – her brothers – and she'd changed six times since she'd woken and showered at midday.

It was now nearly eight o'clock – she couldn't justify leaving until ten, not really. It only took an hour to drive down the motorway to the west of London, but realistically to avoid getting lost around Heathrow she'd need to leave earlier, especially if she wanted to be able to meet them as they came out of customs. She let her eyes become unfocussed as she gazed at the candle flame flickering in the darkness, and relaxed into the moment.

Abruptly her phone began making an irritating buzzing sound, and she stirred from the deep trance-like state she had slipped into. She blew out the candle and turned on the lights, before pulling on shoes and grabbing a bottle of energy drink from one of the kitchen cupboards. As she pulled on a jacket, grabbed her keys and left the kitchen, Bilbo sat mewing pitifully on the sofa. Ignoring him, she dashed out of her flat and down the stairs. Unlocking the car, she swung her handbag into the front passenger foot well, and put the key into the ignition. The car roared quietly to life, and she quickly manoeuvred out of the space she'd parked in.

Surely navigating her way to the motorway, she cracked the window and listened to the rushing of the wind as she sped along. The surreal feeling of the evening was strengthening as she repeatedly realised that she was going to meet her brothers, brothers she never knew about or dared to dream existed.

* * *

An air hostess gently shook Sam's shoulder.

"Sir? We're about to prepare for landing, could you wake up please?" He blinked groggily and shook his head slightly.

"Of course. Let me wake my brother. He might…bleurgh or something." The air hostess gave him a pitying smile and moved on. He nudged Dean, more in hope than expectation. "Dude. We're about to land." Dean let out a rather sick-sounding moan. "Come on, man. Claire'll be waiting for us, and you can't see her looking like you've just slept in a pile of…yeah…" Dean cracked one eye open.

"We're landing?"

"Yeah. Any minute…now." As he spoke, the landing gears came down, and seconds later the wheels made contact with the tarmac of the runway. "We're in England. Time to make yourself look presentable." Dean reacted with a grumpy groan and struggled to sit upright. "And you have seriously got to do something with those sick-bags."


	3. Beware: Chalk Pit

_A/N: __TW: mention of debilitating depression and anxiety. _Standard disclaimer. Anything relating to Supernatural is not mine, I am simply borrowing it for a while. Except my OCs. They're mine. Enjoy :)

* * *

Claire stood anxiously in the arrivals lounge of terminal three, her stomach in knots. Crowds of people surrounded her, some clutching names on cards, others bearing flowers and gifts. She felt strangely alone in this sea of human life, suspended in numb anticipation. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway through which the first few passengers were beginning to stumble, tired and weary. Some made their way directly through the crowd; regular travellers returning home. Others were leapt upon by family and friends, returning from holidays or business trips. Still more were met by taxi drivers and chauffeurs sent by companies or rich relatives.

Eventually, when the majority of the crowd had dissipated, their loved ones or colleagues in tow, two bedraggled figures appeared in the arch. Claire smothered the grin threatening to spread across her face, and gave a restrained wave. Sam, who was bodily supporting a semi-comatose Dean, gave a half wave and a smile, then went back to dragging Dean towards her. Concerned, Claire ran towards them.

"What _happened_? Is he ok?!" She slipped Dean's arm over her shoulder and wrapped her own around his waist. "Jesus Christ, he's heavy!" They supported him as far as a seat, where they unceremoniously dumped him, moving to stand in front of him. Sam put his hands on his hips and sighed.

"He's fine. I mean, he threw up six times in the first three hours of the flight and then slept for the last four – he smells foul, but I swear he doesn't normally." Claire began to giggle nervously, and dug into her handbag and pulled out the energy drink she'd intended on drinking earlier. Twisting the cap off, she offered it to Dean.

"Here, drink this. It'll help." He blinked at her groggily.

"Thanks." Claire raised an eyebrow, continued her struggle against the grin which was still fighting to spread from ear to ear, and pushed the bottle into his hand.

"Just get on with it." She closed her eyes for a moment and let the grin expand across her face. Opening her eyes she looked at Sam. "So, I got to meet you two, huh?" His matching grin told her everything she needed to know and she gently leant against him, as one of his arms wrapped around her shoulders. Dean took a few sips of the liquid, and slumped against the back of the seat, eyes closed. A minute or so later, he opened his eyes and took a couple more gulps from the bottle, looking significantly better than he had previously. "Oh hello, stranger." Claire's eyes were sparkling. "Ready for an hour on the road?"

"Hell yeah! I've had enough plane travel for a lifetime." He struggled upright and swayed slightly, turning vaguely grey.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, speedy." Claire instinctively moved to support him. "If you throw up on me I have to warn you that I won't have the least sympathy for you." He wrapped his arm tightly around her shoulder.

"That's fine." A worried look crossed his face. "There isn't too much walking to your car is there? I'm not sure I'm up for all this bouncing around."

"You mean walking?"

"Yeah. That. Bouncing." Sam came over to support Dean's other side.

"No, I parked in the terminal car park, but I think there's some speed bumps on the way to the motorway."

"You think. Nice to know you were paying _so much_ attention on the way here." Sam gave her a look. "I mean seriously, what if you'd-"

"If you dare say _died_, Sam Winchester, the moment I'm not supporting our brother I will give you the slapping of your life." Dean let out a laugh and looked like he instantly regretted it. "And it wasn't a case of not paying attention, it's more a case of not _needing_ to pay attention to the _road surface_. Traffic calming measures don't really bother me." She wasn't defending herself, not exactly. Her tone was more one of a parent explaining something for the hundredth time to a child who persists on asking the same questions and has pushed them past the point of anger. Sam winced.

"Sorry." Claire's stomach dropped. It was too soon for them to fall out over something stupid, and she was suddenly terrified that was where things were going. They'd finally left the terminal building and were about to cross the road to the car park.

"I…don't…it's ok." She bowed her head, as though it was suddenly too heavy to bear. The boys watched her, uneasy. She took a deep breath and lifted her head again. "Car?" The false brightness in her tone made Sam prick up his ears and gave Dean a shudder of unease.

"Sure." Dean squeezed her waist tighter, and she briefly leaned into him. By the time they got to the car there was an awkward silence hanging over the three of them. Dean stopped walking when he saw Claire's car – or what he assumed was Claire's car; it was the only one in the terminal car park. A look of horror crossed his face as he clocked the tiny black Toyota. "You want me to get into that-" Sam jabbed him in the ribs. "That?"

"Well, Dean, that is my car. Unless you'd rather _bounce_ all the way home, you're going to have to get into it." Claire gave him a mischievous smile and her tone was laden with sarcasm. She swallowed. "Before we get in…I think I might have overreacted before. It's just…I spent my whole life being picked on for the smallest things I did. I defend before I recognise tone, it's what I had to do…don't- don't interrupt for a minute, Sam." Sam – who had opened his mouth to defend her – closed his mouth and looked at her. "I overreact. And I've lost friends because of it. I don't know how to make things better, and living with depression and anxiety makes it impossible for me to try. So…this is me trying to stop myself ruining things, and this is also me telling you that I'm broken, almost beyond repair – but in a completely different way to the ones you're used to." She trailed off and unlocked the car. "Let's get you in the car, Dean."

"No."

"What?" She looked at Dean askance.

"No. There's something I need to do first."

"There is?"

"Yep." He took a breath and supported himself completely, and then held out his arms to Claire. She looked at him. "I think you need a hug." She smiled and stepped into the space he'd created for her, sliding her arms around his waist and resting her cheek on his shoulder. As he carefully wrapped his arms around her, she smiled and blinked away the tears forming in her eyes. They stood that way for a moment or two then she lifted her head.

"Come on then, brothers, mine. Time for you to deal with my driving." She let out a surprising cackle and opened Dean's door. "Get in then." She looked at Sam. "You're going to have to go in the back, I'm not risking Mr Up-Chuck here in a space where the windows don't open!" Sam laughed and opened the back door, his face falling as he noticed the lack of leg room. Claire gave him a look.

"I'm a single, jobless journalist. I don't need legroom in the back. Sit behind me, my seat's further forward." As Sam was getting into the car, she slung their bags into the boot, and climbed in herself. "All buckled in?" Her brothers nodded. "Off we go then."

* * *

"I don't like being on this side of a car and not having the steering wheel," Dean complained for the fifth time in half an hour. Claire had managed to get out of Heathrow without getting lost, and they were now just passing onto the M3.

"Well, Dean, you're just going to have to get used to it." Claire had plugged her phone into the car, and they were listening to _Band of Horses_ back catalogue. Sam was happily bobbing along with the music, but Dean was on the verge of mutiny. "Would it make you happier if I let you change the music?" He nodded gloomily. "Go on then. There's a playlist on there somewhere I think you'll like." He gingerly picked up her phone.

"How?" She glanced at him.

"Press the button on the top. Swipe to the right. At the bottom, press the red button with the musical note on it. At the bottom of that screen press playlists. There should be one called _Carry on Wayward Son_. Tap that, and then the first song." Dean was following her instructions, and suddenly the car was full of Kansas. Dean's face was lit by a childish smile, and the three of them had a moment of bonding as they cruised smoothly along the motorway singing loudly.

The playlist saw them all the way back to Winchester. Claire didn't immediately take them back to hers; it seemed that as soon as they pulled off the motorway, they were turning down a dark country road and barrelling along at speeds which had even Dean clinging on for dear life. Claire noticed and laughed.

"I've been driving these roads for years. There's nothing to worry about." The dark trees overhead formed a tunnel, and the darkness of the night deepened.

"Where the hell are you taking us, Claire?" Sam had ended up semi-reclined across the back seats in an attempt to calm the cramps in his legs.

"Just a place I know. It's lovely during the day, but it's truly beautiful at night." She swung confidently into a gravelled car park, and stopped the engine. "I hope you guys are up for a bit of a walk?" Dean raised an eyebrow at her.

"I'm feeling much better, thank you. I should be able to manage a walk. How 'bout you, Sam? Those mile-long legs of yours up for a walk?"

"They'll be fine once they're straight again.

"Ah, but the point of walking is to continually flex and extend your legs. It's no use if they're just straight." On a peal of laughter, Claire stepped out of the car and popped the boot open, pulling out a University of Winchester hoody, and tugging it over her head. "You two might want to find a jacket – it's a bit exposed out on the hill, and the wind can be chilly." She guided them past the barrier at the end of the car park and up a rough path edged with brambles and trees with outstretched branches.

"Is it a long walk?" Dean's stomach gave a discontented gurgle.

"Nope, only about five minutes." Claire slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and bumped her hip into his. "Come on lazy bones, there's a bench waiting for you at the other end."

Eventually, she steered them up a gravelled hill to a double kissing gate, which she climbed over with ease. They followed her towards a large mound topped with a pyramidal monument, which she looked at with fondness then walked straight past. She headed for a bench overlooking the downs and sat down at one end. When Sam and Dean caught up with her and stood on either side of her, she slid to the middle of the bench, and they sat down with her.

"So…why are we here?" Sam had slung his arm around the back of the bench and twisted to look at her. Dean was focussing on taking deep breaths and settling his stomach. Claire dug in her bag and found some peppermint polos which she offered to Dean.

"They'll help." Dean grunted his thanks. "I just thought it'd be good to spend some time together somewhere it isn't completely claustrophobic like my flat. The outdoors is good for getting to know each other." Sam tilted his head on one side and smiled at her.

"A good plan. What is this place anyway?"

"Farley Mount. The monument's dedicated to the horse buried under the mound."

"A horse?"

"Yup, a horse named 'Beware Chalk Pit'!"

"Someone named their horse that?"

"They did indeed." Claire leant back against the bench and gazed out over the dark valleys in front of her. "You know you can see the sea from here?" Her hands sketched the form of the land before them. "Over there's Fawley Refinery – I've always thought it looks like a huge cigarette butt, stubbed out by a disgruntled giant. And a bit further that way you've got Southampton docks, and Southampton Water. The other way you've got Eastleigh, and that stream of lights is the M3. And behind us is Winchester, but it's all hidden behind the woods." The boys relaxed into the moment, as Claire stopped her geography lesson and lapsed into thoughtful silence, one hand tucked in Dean's elbow, the other resting between her and Sam. "You know, about this time last year I came out here with one of my friends and enacted the story of _Beware Chalk Pit_. I don't think I've ever been more embarrassed in my life." The boys couldn't help but smile at the idea of Claire – awkward and nerdy, with glasses and flyaway hair – galloping around in public pretending to be a horse. "But anyway, I've just found the family I never thought I'd have, and I have no idea where to begin." Sam caught her free hand in one of his, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

"Start where feels natural."

"Everything feels natural, that's the problem. It might be because I've read those damnable books, but I don't think it's that – and it's not like I read all of them anyway, just the ones my editor suggested."

"Where would you start if we were people you'd just met – at uni or something?"

"Oh, I always kept things strictly business with people at uni unless we particularly got on. I kinda…made friends in first year and never made any more after that…I've never been very good at getting to know people or making friends." She paused. "It's almost like I give off this vibe – like people take one look at me and think I'm weird." The boys frowned at her.

"I doubt that's true. I didn't look at you and think you were weird. I _knew_ you were weird, but that's a different thing altogether." Dean squeezed the hand closest to him.

"Yes, but you're not coming at me from a student's perspective – especially not a student who doesn't know me. I spent my free time researching local paranormal activity, and studying local history, hiking the downs and exploring the geography of it all first hand. They spent their free time getting drunk and having sex. Not that that's a bad thing. It's just not what I did."

"Paranormal activities?"

"I've always had a bit of a thing for the occult. I have rune stones and a Tarot deck which I use for divination, and I meditate a lot. Looking at the paranormal seemed to be the next step on."

"When you say paranormal, you mean?"

"Ghosts, bogeymen, barrow wights…there's a whole host of Celtic mythology and symbolism around here. Winchester used to be a Pagan hub, and there are stories that Winchester was Camelot from the King Arthur legends." The boys sat up straighter on their bench.

"You've done research?" Claire frowned, confused.

"Yes…should I not have done research?" Her brothers exchange significant looks over the top of her head. "What?"

"You truly are a Winchester, aren't you?"

"Well…yes…"

"You weren't even raised a hunter and you still sought it out." Sam sounded a combination of impressed and resigned. "The genes are strong in this one." Claire giggled at his Yoda impression.

"Enough cold, late-night getting to know each other?" Dean was beginning to shiver.

"Alright, if you've had enough we can head back, ok?" He nodded somewhat frantically.

"I'm not entirely sure I can feel my butt."


	4. The Winchesters in Winchester

_A/N: Standard disclaimer. Anything relating to Supernatural is not mine, I am simply borrowing it for a while. Except my OCs. They're mine. Enjoy :)_

_I need to thank my 'nonny reviewer – I really appreciate your reviews, I'm just sorry I can't reply to them! Reviews are incredibly motivating, especially as I'm currently dealing with a depressive relapse (hence why I'm writing Fanfiction instead of my dissertation…!)_

* * *

"Good morning, it's time to get up." A smooth male voice floated through Claire's living room. "It's time to get up. Good morning, it's time to get up." Dean did get up, very quickly. So quickly, in fact, that he nearly took himself out with the edge of the coffee table. He ran the few steps to the kitchen, and began rummaging through Claire's cupboards. Claire appeared in the doorway behind him, holding the source of the noise in her hand.

"Dean?" She gently touched his back and he jumped. "Dean, what are you doing?" She sounded still half-asleep.

"Where's the salt?" His voice was tight with what he would never admit was fear.

"The salt? Dean, why would you need the salt?"

"That voice."

"Was my alarm. I'm sorry, I should have remembered to take it into my room when we got in. It's ok, come and sit down." Claire caught hold of his arm and led him back into the living room. "It's ok." Poking Sam until he sat up, and scooping Bilbo out of the nest he'd made at Sam's feet, she sat Dean down on the sofa and perched on the arm. "I'm sorry." Dean took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Don't worry about it…I really don't like that dude's voice, though. Can you…get rid of it or something?" He fiddled with the leg of his boxers. "It gives me the creeps." Claire smiled.

"Sure." She squeezed his shoulder. "Gave you a fright, huh?"

"No! I mean…yes, I was a bit creeped out that some smooth-talking dude was telling me to wake up, but I wasn't _scared_ or anything."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Mr I-can-sleep-through-anything here clearly wasn't bothered by it. Were you, Sam?" Sam, who was yawning widely and stretching out his long limbs merely flapped a hand in her direction and shook his head.

"Nope, I was asleep until you started prodding me."

"That's what I thought."

"What did I miss?"

"Just me overreacting." Dean spoke before Claire could.

"It was my fault, I left my phone in here last night and forgot I have an alarm set."

"Ok…so both of you are claiming responsibility for something which is basically insignificant?"

"I guess so." Claire smirked as she spoke, and Dean shook his head.

"We're all as bad as each other. So what's the plan for today?" Sam poked Claire's upper arm.

"First off, we're going to have to negotiate both bathroom and bedroom rights for washing and dressing. I'm not having you two trailing around Winchester stinking of sweat and looking like you haven't slept in a month, and frankly if I'm doing breakfast through there, I don't want you changing in here."

"If breakfast is in the balance, you go first." Dean's stomach growled impatiently.

"Well…what do you want for breakfast?"

"Something hot." Dean stood up and made a break for the bathroom.

"There's a towel in there!"

"Thanks!" He called through the door, having already closed and locked it. Sam looked confused.

"I don't think I've ever seen Dean so eager to be clean before."

"I would have sworn he told me to go first." Claire gave Sam a look and they both started laughing. Dean came back out of the bathroom looking sheepish.

"Uh, Claire? You want to go first?"

"Thanks. If you two want breakfast before midday that might be a good idea!"

* * *

When Claire had showered and dressed – a _Firefly_ tee and skinny jeans with fluffy socks – she shoved Dean into the bathroom. Sitting down next to Sam, she leant her head on his shoulder, her wet hair dripping down his back.

"How're you holding up?" Sam wrapped an arm around her waist. "Feeling less…you know…blah than last night?" She nodded against his shoulder.

"It's nice having you two here. I'm sorry my flat's so tiny – it's just there's only me and Bilbo, and I have practically no income… It would be better if I at least had more room, but this is all I have." He squeezed her.

"It's not a problem. We can switch out who sleeps on the floor, and you and Bilbo can sleep wherever you want." At the sound of his name, Bilbo, who had previously been sound asleep in a plant pot by the TV, yawned and stretched before meandering over to Sam and meowing to be picked up.

"He likes you."

"Yeah, cats do that a lot." The two of them had a few minutes of peace playing 'catch the fingers' with Bilbo, until Dean started singing. Claire winced.

"Is he always so off-key?" Sam's face lit up with a grin.

"Yeah, pretty much. Every so often he'll hit a note and look so surprised." Claire went back to dripping down Sam's back.

"Bless his cottons." A moment of quiet passed, until Sam yelped and shook Bilbo off his lap.

"He's got needles!" Claire muffled a laugh.

"Yes…he's a kitten who hasn't mastered the scratching-post yet." Glee dancing in her eyes, she looked at the damaged thumb. "Poor Sammy, did the nasty kitty scratch you?" Blood welled from the cut and she sighed. "Come on then." She dragged Sam unwillingly into the kitchen and ran the cold tap. "Stick your thumb under that." While Sam held his hand under the stream of water, Claire dug around in one of the cupboards, eventually emerging with a plaster and some TCP.

"Jesus, Claire, it's a tiny scratch. I've had worse."

"I know, and I bet some of those resulted in infection and other nasty business. Cats are notorious – especially house cats – for carrying all sorts of bacteria on their paws. Better safe than sorry." Sam heaved a sigh and removed his hand from the water, letting Claire carefully pat it dry with some kitchen towel, dab his thumb with TCP, and carefully stick the plaster on it. As much as he was loath to admit it, Claire's method of dealing with injuries was preferable to Dean's – at least she didn't take to a blunt needle and thick thread.

By this point, Dean had removed himself from the shower and was busy trying to find clothes from the bag hastily slung into Claire's study, so Sam took his place in the shower, and Claire made a start on breakfast.

* * *

An hour and a half later – when all three had showered and dressed – they sat around the kitchen table with a full English breakfast in front of them.

"Jeez, Claire. What have we even got here? Two sausages, four bits of bacon, grilled tomato, scrambled eggs, baked beans, toast with butter…I think I must be in heaven after all." Dean's stomach growled in confirmation, and he began shovelling food into his mouth. Claire grinned and began carefully cutting her sausages into four equal parts before moving the eggs onto her toast and cutting the fat off her bacon. Sam looked forlornly at his plate.

"Would it be ungrateful if I asked for a bowl of cereal?"

"What are you on, man? Course it would be rude! She's made you all this-"

"It's fine, Dean."

"It's not! He's being ungrateful."

"I said it's fine, Dean, and I meant it." Claire's tone made it clear that she meant business. "And if you argue with me on this again, I will be forced to use my 'mum' voice."

"But-"

"Oh for goodness sake! Dean, if it bothered me, you would know, believe me. It is ok for him to not want a full English breakfast. He can have something else if he wants. I should have thought to ask what he wanted." She looked at Sam. "Which cereal would you like?" He looked sheepish.

"I think I'll have this – you went to all the bother of cooking it-"

"I was cooking anyway. A couple more doesn't make any difference here nor there. Which cereal would you rather have?"

"No, no. I can have something bad for me for once. Dean's always on my back about rabbit food." He looked doubtfully at his plate. Claire stood up.

"For God's sake!" She removed Sam's plate and looked at him again. "Pretend the cooked breakfast never happened. Which cereal would you like?"

"What cereals do you have?" Dean let out a muffled roar of frustration.

"You're not in a frigging café!" Claire glared at him.

"Dean, take your breakfast into the other room and turn on the TV." Claire's voice was quiet but firm, and her thirty-four-year-old brother quailed. Collecting his coffee cup and breakfast, he sloped off. Claire let out a sigh. "I'll deal with him in a minute. I've got All Bran, Cornflakes, Rice Crispies…pick your poison." Sam's eyes lit up.

"All Bran, please." Claire smoothed the hair at the nape of his neck and reached across the kitchen for a bowl. Leaving Sam to his cereal, she picked up her mug of tea and her plate, and trailed into the living room.

Dean was sitting obnoxiously in the middle of the sofa, staring grumpily at _BBC Breakfast_. Claire sat down close beside him and bumped her shoulder against his. He studiously ignored her, shovelling food into his mouth. They finished their breakfasts in silence. Claire gazed at the wall, focussing on controlling her anxiety as Dean worked through his frustration. When he finally put down his plate and slumped against the back of the sofa, Claire put her plate on the floor and turned so her back was against the arm of the settee and her feet were resting against Dean's thigh. He pulled them into his lap and began playing with the fuzz of her socks. She wriggled her toes against his fingers until he laughed and captured them in his palm. Sam wandered in and plonked himself on the spare seat of the couch.

"Are we going to talk this through?" Claire gave him a look.

"We've sorted things out, I think, so it's just between you two now."

"How have you sorted things out? I didn't hear you say anything!"

"We didn't need to."

"I really don't understand you two." Claire reached out one leg to full stretch and dropped her foot into Sam's lap. "What?" Dean was still playing a strange game of 'catch-the-toes', and Sam watched, amused. "Ok, so you two communicate through wriggling toes. Can someone communicate with me in a way I understand?" Claire smoothed a crease out of the knee of his jeans with her foot.

"Ok, let's communicate." Sam sighed and rested a hand on her ankle.

"I don't know. I think I might be seeing problems where there aren't any – probably my version of your overreacting. Maybe it's that I'm not the youngest anymore – although that's not a bad thing, I think. It might be that Dean and I are competing to look after you the best, and we both do it different ways, and while it's making us all closer just by you being you, the competition aspect is driving into a state of opponents rather than brothers…" He trailed off, looking lost. Dean was frowning and clutching Claire's foot. Claire extricated herself from her brothers, and slid onto the floor, kneeling between them and taking one of their hands each in both of hers.

"You are both idiots – but you're my idiot big brothers. You don't need to compete to look after me – I'm a big girl! – I can care for both of you in the ways you care for me…you can both just carry on the ways you know best." Her brothers both looked down, cowed that their twenty-one-year-old baby sister was able to understand both of them better after twenty-four hours than either of them were able to understand the other after thirty years. "Ok? Domestic over?" They nodded. "Good – let's get ready to go out, and I'll show you around town."

* * *

Forty minutes later (most of which could be attributed to Dean laughing at Sam's plaster, then promptly being scratched by Bilbo himself and needing the same treatment), they were finally standing outside Claire's front door. Dean tilted his head on one side and looked at her.

"So, how does a struggling journalist like you afford a place like this?" Claire blushed and ducked her head.

"My mum's parents passed away a couple of years ago…I'm their only grandchild and the money from the sale of their house was split between me and mum. My half was enough to buy me the flat outright…it's completely mine. My space. I had just enough left over to really kick-start saving for a car, which is how this 'struggling journalist' can afford a brand new car." He gave her a sympathetic smile, and both brothers looped their arms around her in an impromptu group hug. Disentangling herself, Claire tucked her hands into their elbows and towed them away from the flat. "Come on then, on the itinerary for today we have…a visit to the West Gate museum – mostly for the view – then on to the Great Hall to see King Arthur's Round Table, lunch in town on the way to the Christmas Market, a quick run round there, then back up to join the procession for the lantern parade!" Dean – who had begun to look vaguely bored at the idea of a Christmas Market – perked up.

"A lantern parade?"

"Yep, practically the entire city gathers at the Great Hall at dusk, and then we process down the High Street – lit only by Christmas lights and shop windows – and congregate in the Cathedral Close for the live band entertainment. This year I think it's supposed to be a 1950's tribute band called_ The Cadillacs_." He nodded, trying not to look too excited. "It's a shame you two missed Guy Fawkes' Night, you'd've loved the firework display and the massive bonfire on the rec."

They traipsed down the hill into town, until they reached the ancient West Gate of the city. Claire tugged them round the side, and through a tiny wooden door, up a flight of narrow stone steps, and they emerged in a small room, lined with glass cases and interactive displays. The guide looked hopefully at them, and Claire dutifully dropped a few pound coins into the donations box.

"It's free, but they like to feel like they get something out of your visit," she whispered, and gave the guide a winning smile. "Is the roof open today?" The guide smiled and nodded. "Thank you." Claire guided her brothers through another tiny wooden door and up another flight of narrow stone steps. "You'll want to watch your head at the top, the lintel's really low on this one." The three of them ducked out of the low doorway, and emerged on the top of the Gate. Claire almost ran across the roof, her scarf flying out behind her as she hopped onto the viewing platform and leant on the parapet. The boys exchanged a look, and followed at a slightly more sedate pace. The chilly wind whistled around them as they stood overlooking the city. Claire's eyes were sparkling as she gazed over the rooftops.

Having pointed out certain buildings and _ooh_ed at the quaintness of the city, they trooped back down the two flights of narrow stairs and emerged almost at the doorway of the Great Hall.

"It's the last remaining original structure from the Castle." Sam and Claire wandered off to take a look at the architecture, and left Dean to look at the Round Table, hung high on one of the walls. As he was peering intently at some of the names, struggling to decipher them, Claire snuck up behind him. "Whatcha looking at, stranger?"

"Just these names. I can't read any of them."

"If you look closely enough you can just make out Lancelot and Arthur up there, and over there you can make out Mordred." She was pointing over his shoulder, directing his gaze. "But it's true, the style of writing is probably the least clear one they could have chosen. Then again, this was the Tudors. Everything had to be overdone to the point of ruination."

After their whistle-stop tour of the Great Hall – Sam complained loudly about the brevity of their visit – they headed into the town centre, and Dean insisted in stopping in at each of the pie and pasty shops, emerging each time with a slight variant on the Cornish pasty – something he'd never experienced before, and something he was heartily sick of by the time he'd eaten four in a row.

The Christmas tree standing in the middle of the High Street was lit with thousands of tiny bulbs, and a small band was playing near the base. Christmas hymns floated from the orchestra, and many people had gathered to listen. The three of them stopped, too, and Claire began singing in a clear alto tone which encouraged other on-lookers to join in. Having successfully caused an impromptu carol service, Claire dragged her brothers further down the High Street to the Cathedral. The garlands festooned with lights which were strung above their heads down the length of the High Street were quaint and thoroughly unlike anything Sam and Dean had ever seen before; American Christmases were much more exaggerated and over-the-top than British ones, but the dainty nature of the two-foot Christmas trees suspended above shop doors was enthralling, even for them.

Emerging at the Christmas Market, the boys stopped and stared. An ice rink took up the majority of the space, and surrounding it were hundreds of tiny sheds, each selling unique and charming gifts and wares, ranging from hand-made potpourri to wreaths, fairies to woolly hats. The three of them spent quite some time wandering in and out of the sheds, sampling the foodstuffs and mulled drinks – Claire snuck off and booked tickets for ice skating later that evening, surprising the boys with them as they tucked into traditional French crepes smothered in chocolate spread.

As dusk fell, the majority of the patrons of the market began to move back towards the High Street and the start of the lantern parade, the three Winchester siblings moving with them. Claire had produced gloves and hats from somewhere before they left the flat that morning, and suddenly the boys were incredibly appreciative of it.

"It gets cold quick here, doesn't it?" Sam shivered and huddled with Claire and Dean.

"Yep, you don't tend to notice it until you're so cold your feet are numb." Dean – who'd listened when Claire had suggested wearing at least two pairs of socks – was marginally less cold, and was kindly donating some of his warmth to Claire by cuddling her inside his coat.

"It gets dark quick here, too." He was gazing up at the lit garlands and strings of lights criss-crossing the air above their heads. "It's beautiful. Thank you." He kissed the top of Claire's head and she squeezed him tighter.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it." At that moment, the first blazing lanterns appeared from the Great Hall. The three of them separated, and Claire grabbed hold of their hands. "Come on." They followed the exodus back down to the Cathedral, enjoying the festive atmosphere and the glowing warmth of the lanterns.

Having arrived back in the Cathedral and half listened to the tribute band playing on the make-shift stage, Sam's protests of cold finally won over Claire's heart, and she led her brothers home. Almost as soon as they'd got through the front door, Claire had turned up the heating and provided her brothers with hot chocolate.

"So, a good beginning?"

"A good beginning." Claire slid between her brothers on the sofa and wrapped an arm around each of them.

"You know what? I'm almost glad Chuck lost me my job. If he hadn't, I wouldn't have met you."


End file.
